


The Ugly Merman

by rallamajoop



Category: Cable and Deadpool
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know the story - there's a handsome prince, an unfortunate shipwreck, and old sea-witch, and a lovesick mer-<i>something</i> (who may or may not deserve the moniker 'little'). The rest comes down to interpretation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Little Mermaid: The tragic tale of the beautiful young mermaid with the enchanting singing voice who longed for nothing more than to be human.
> 
> Deadpool: The tragic tale of the brain-damaged Weapon X-guinea pig-cum-mercenary with the gravelly-Demi-Moore voice, who longed for nothing more than to _look_ human. (Or to marry Bea Arthur. Either really; he's not _that_ picky.)
> 
> Fun fact about mermaids: If you know where to look, you'll find mythology is packed to the gills with tales of watery spirits (naiads, kappa, selkies, sirens, what-have-you) who have no difficulty whatsoever getting around on land. But [not all of them are nearly so beautiful](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merman) as the traditional mermaid. In fact, sometimes even when the females of the species are breathtakingly beautiful, the males still get stuck looking like a piece of sentient fungus. 
> 
> It was obvious what had to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters of this story can be read either in strict chronological order or in order of posting. If you'd prefer to go with the chronological order, you'll want to start with [chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/737449/chapters/13785640) and then come back to chapter 1, though the thing should be more or less equally readable either way.

The first thing Nathan does on waking is to roll over onto his hands and knees and retch. Small mercy that he seems to have already emptied the rest of the contents of his stomach earlier this evening; he doesn't like to guess how much seawater must have made it into his stomach or lungs before he'd been dragged ashore, barely lasting that long before passing out. Every part of his body aches; even breathing comes with an unpleasant twinge at the base of his chest. His mouth tastes of seawater and bile; never in his life has he wanted a glass of water so badly.  
  
Never in his life has he felt so grateful just to be _alive_.  
  
The memories leading up to how he came to be here are uncomfortably sharp. The storm, the great bolt of lighting that had set the mast afire, waves so huge one had picked up the lifeboat and tossed it like a leaf. He remembers finding a broken plank torn free in the wreckage and clinging to it for what felt like hours before even that was wrest away from him. He'd been so sure he was done for by the time he'd caught sight of the dark shape swimming towards him – man-sized and shaped, head, arms and legs all silhouetted clearly against the dark water in the light of a lightning strike, but no man could have swum against the waves in a sea so wild. He'd remembered the legends of the mermen who haunted wrecks for the pleasure of making sure the sea claimed as many lives as possible, felt strong arms wrapping around his body and thought to himself, _this is how it ends_. But instead, whoever or whatever it was who'd found him had carried him back to the surface and dragged his limp body all the way to shore.  
  
And there, apparently, deserted him?  
  
Nathan sits up and takes stock of his surroundings. He's alone on a rocky beach, but the distant sound of the waves and the fine, dry sand under his fingernails stand as proof that something has carried him well beyond the waterline. The storm appears to have blown over some time past and the stars are out, but there's no moon – most of the light comes instead from a small fire someone has made in a pile of driftwood close enough to be a comforting glow in the freezing night air.  
  
Maybe whoever rescued him has gone to find help? It seems odd that they wouldn't have waited with him until he'd regained consciousness at the very least, and now that he's cleared his mind enough to remember, hadn't he heard the sound of footsteps hurrying away over the sand just as he'd woken up?  
  
Nathan looks around himself again, suddenly apprehensive for reasons he can't quite articulate.  
  
“Hello?” he calls. His throat turns it into an ugly rasp and starts him coughing again.  
  
There's a scuffling noise from behind a rock not far away, and the sound of pebbles being displaced to clatter noisily for some distance over more rock before they make it to the sand.  
  
Nathan's head whips around. “Is someone there?” he manages, a little louder.  
  
“No?” says someone in a voice like gravel. It doesn't sound that much better than Nathan's own, though the clear note of uncertainty that comes through nonetheless would seem to suggest that this is the speaker's natural state rather than something brought on by a similar ordeal.  
  
“Why are you hiding?” Nathan asks.  
  
“Oh. Ah. Well, y'see, the truth is, I can't come out because I'm under a nasty curse!” says the voice.  
  
“A curse?” Nathan echoes.  
  
“Yeah, a curse!” the speaker repeats. “Very nasty. Very curse-y. Anyone who sees me gets turned into a frog. Pretty well murdered my social calendar, I'm sure you can imagine. So you see, it's going to be in everyone's best interests if I stay behind this rock for now.”  
  
“That sounds... nasty,” Nathan agrees, vaguely. He's not awake enough for all his critical faculties to have come back on line, but the idea of a curse that specific seems dubious at best.  
  
“Yeah, but what can you do. Witches, huh?” says the voice.  
  
“But you were the one who rescued me?” Nathan asks, foolishly imagining this would have to be an easier question.  
  
“Rescued, okay, yeah, you could _call_ it that,” the voice admits, with startling reluctance. “If you call just _happening_ to spot some poor bastard drowning his way through your patch and dragging him a little way to the nearest bit of dry stuff 'rescuing', then yeah, you could say I rescued you. But y'know, no big deal, I was heading this way anyway and all.”  
  
There's an awful lot about that speech that Nathan finds confusing, but the part to stand out is, “A little way?” He's sure they'd been out of sight of the shore when the storm had hit; even if it had blown them miles off course they should have been hours out from land. “Where are we?”  
  
“Er, not so good with place names,” says the voice. “It's that bit of coast that juts out around that big rock that looks like a walrus with one big tusk, gets all covered in a foot deep of birdshit in the calm season. You know the one?”  
  
It takes a minute, but Nathan does. It's not so very far from home – he remembers being warned never to go swimming near there as a boy because the currents that go spiralling around the rocks could rip a man out to sea and dash his body to death before he knew what was happening. “You got me ashore there? How? You didn't even have a boat, no man could...” There he trails off, half-remembered visions taking on a startling new meaning.  
  
“Oh, did I say the walrus-head rock?” says the voice quickly. “Must've got that wrong. Yeah, I remember! What I meant was the walrus- _tail_ rock, not so distinctive, not as popular with the birds, bit down the coastline where it's quieter...”  
  
“When I was sinking,” says Nathan, ignoring him, “for just a moment I could have sworn I saw a merman.”  
  
“Now look here,” says the voice, though it comes across more nervous than properly indignant, “just because a man has a bit of an unfortunate curse situation is no cause to go calling him names.”  
  
“You swam from the middle of the storm dragging my full weight,” says Nathan, reasoning it out slowly. “No human could have done that.”  
  
“It was more like the _edge_ of the storm when I found you, notthatIwaslooking or anything, I was more sort of...”  
  
“Is that why you won't let me see you?” Nathan asks gently.  
  
The owner of the voice huffs out a breath then goes silent for a moment. “Okay, fine. You got me. I'm as merm as a man can be. But I still can't come out from behind this rock because of the curse thing.”  
  
Nathan gives up and changes the subject. “Do you have a name?”  
  
“Uh...” says the merman, and hesitates yet again; Nathan is starting to get the uncomfortable impression that there is no such thing as an innocent question in mer-culture. “You can call me Deadpool.”  
  
“Deadpool?” Watery and dangerous – actually, that's rather fitting.  
  
“Yeah, well, Stillwater was taken, and it beat Doom-lagoon,” says Deadpool, defensive.  
  
“Sorry,” says Nathan. “I didn't mean to sound like I was laughing at you. I couldn't, considering my full name.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“It's Nathanial Christopher Charles Dayspring Askani'son Summers.”  
  
Deadpool whistles. “ _Damn_.”  
  
“I know.” _It's a hazard of being descended from royalty_ , is on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitates, not sure if this is the time or place to go dropping his royal credentials like that. “My friends call me Nathan, or Nate. Whichever you prefer.”  
  
“Don't blame 'em,” says Deadpool, though being counted as one of Nathan's friends obviously pleases him. “Nate, huh?”  
  
“What I was trying to lead up to saying there, Deadpool,” says Nathan, “is that, whether you're human or not makes no difference, I owe you my life. There's no way I could ever thank you enough.”  
  
Something about this outpouring of sincerity seems to make Deadpool uncomfortable again. “Uh, might wanna be a bit more careful with the big declarations of gratitude around the mythical types, Nate. Could find yourself promising a debt that's gonna come back and bite you somewhere personal, if you know what I mean.”  
  
This is all said in such an offhand way that it leaves Nathan completely unable to assess whether it's just been threatened. “Is that the sort of thing you're likely to do?”  
  
“Well nooooo, I'm just saying, if I _was_ that way inclined...”  
  
Nathan almost tells him whatever he wants, just _ask_. He's saved the life of the crown prince of Providence – there's little he could want that isn't in Nathan's power to give, but something in Deadpool's demeanour shrieks _don't tempt me_.  
  
He opts for changing the subject again instead. “Is there any water around?” He might not be in much of a state to make sense of whatever Deadpool's trying to tell him, but he is still horribly thirsty.  
  
“How about the _ocean?_ ” says Deadpool. “Oh – _oh_ – you mean _land_ -water, _without_ the salt? Um, tide's been out for hours and it rained a whole lot earlier so anything you find in the rock pools around here ought to be pretty fresh. If you're careful not to look I could have a scope around for you.”  
  
“Alright,” Nathan lies back down on the sand and slings an arm over his eyes. After a minute he starts to hear Deadpool moving around, sometimes quite close. The urge to peek itches at him.  
  
“Don't look yet,” says Deadpool, after a bit, “But I found some that tastes like there's not much salt in it. Can you hear where my voice is coming from?”  
  
Nathan lifts his hand and points. “About there?”  
  
“Little to your left – that's it. There's a big rock where you're pointing, and there's a crevice on the other side with the water in it. I'm gonna go hide again now and then you can go find it, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Nathan follows the sound of Deadpool's footsteps back behind his original rock. He can't help but wonder if all this is really necessary.  
  
“Okay, I'm good,” he says at last. Nathan opens his eyes.  
  
His muscles are not at all pleased to be asked to carry him even that far – moving _hurts_ – but he finds the crack fairly quickly. There's enough water there for him to scoop up a few mouthfuls in his hands, and if there's any salt in it he doesn't notice – water has never in his life tasted so good. He limps back to the fire feeling a little better.  
  
The worst of the whole excursion is that the moment he's out of the fire light the cold finds him. With the novelty of his talk with Deadpool to distract him it had been easy enough to ignore, but the fact remains that even with the fire he'd been lying in the open in damp clothes on a cold night, and by the time he gets back he's not sure he's going to be able to forget it again. Recognition is sinking in, meanwhile, that no-one knows to look for him out here, and there's no way he's going to make it back to civilisation tonight.  
  
“I suppose I'd better try to get some sleep,” he says aloud.  
  
“Okay. I'll stick around a bit?” says Deadpool. Nathan is on the edge of concluding he's just not used to talking to humans – _everything_ he says comes out sounding uncertain.  
  
“I'd rather not be alone out here,” Nathan admits, which is true even if his only companion won't come out from behind his rock. He curls himself up as close to the fire as he can bear. It doesn't help as much as he'd hoped – the warm glow on his face can do little against the chill of the wind on his back. He rolls over once or twice, trying to warm his body more evenly, but it's not greatly effective. He'll sleep eventually, he's dead tired, but he's going to wake up freezing, and every aching muscle on his body is going to be all the worse for it.  
  
“You alright down there?” says Deadpool's voice, startling him. “You're shaking around a lot.”  
  
“I'm freezing,” Nathan admits.  
  
“You're cold? But I made a fire and everything!”  
  
Nathan is reminded once more he's talking to a man who lives in the ocean. “I'm getting the idea that humans feel the cold a lot more than you do.”  
  
“Didn't think it would be that bad.”  
  
“Allow me to enlighten you then:” says Nathan, teeth chattering, “it _is_.” It's no fault of Deadpool's, who's already done more for him than Nathan can ever repay, but to have one's suffering questioned by someone not similarly afflicted is no help.  
  
He hears Deadpool shift again, sand crunching behind his rock. “If you like I could. Um. I mean, if it's _that_ bad. You'd have to, y'know, be really careful not to look though.”  
  
“Okay,” says Nathan, though he's less than sure exactly what he's agreed to. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut and rolls back to face the fire.  
  
He hardly hears the merman this time, footsteps light over the sand; the first he's sure Deadpool has moved at all is a shift in the air currents at his back, the softest crunch of the sand as he settles his weight behind Nathan and lets out a breath that tickles the back of his neck. Deadpool's every movement is haltingly tentative as he wraps an arm over Nathan's chest and curls up behind him, close enough to share body heat.  
  
“That better?” Deadpool whispers.  
  
Deadpool's bare skin is cool where it touches Nathan's own, but to the chill of the night air there's no comparison. Already he feels incalculably warmer. “Yes, much better. Thank you.”  
  
“Okay, I.... guess I'll stay here a while then,” says Deadpool. Nate hums in agreement. It's hard to guess whether Deadpool's shyness has more to do with his supposed curse or the uncomfortable intimacy of the position they've placed themselves in, and it oughtn't to be relaxing, but Nate is bone-tired and for the first time in hours he feels warm and safe. He falls fast asleep in minutes.  
  


* * *

  
He wakes in the pre-dawn glow of early morning, sleepy and stiff and instantly curious about the strange weight he can feel resting at his back. He rolls over the other way to give himself a proper look.  
  
The grossly deformed features that make up Deadpool's face come into focus so slowly as Nate blinks sleep out of his eyes that the moment when he ought to have startled and recoiled passes him by without incident. Memories of the previous day trickle slowly back to him.  
  
_Oh_ , is his first clear thought of the morning, _that's why he wouldn't let me see him_. It takes him several minutes longer to remember Deadpool's story about his 'curse' and it's no surprise for Nathan to note that, despite that he's looking Deadpool right in the face he's feeling no more amphibious than usual. Perhaps he should be disgusted by the thought of being tricked into spending the night cuddled up against so hideous a creature, but all Nathan can bring himself to feel for Deadpool is the most heartbreaking sadness and pity, that he should have saved a prince's life and still be too consumed by the fear of rejection to show his face.  
  
Well, no matter, Deadpool will wake up soon, and he'll wake to see a Nate who's seen his face and thinks no less of him. Then they can... well, he's not sure what comes next, but they'll figure that out when they get to it.  
  
He considers waking Deadpool up right away, but decides against it. To drag a human so far last night must have been incredibly exhausting, even for one born for life in the sea. He's earned the right to sleep in.  
  


* * *

  
When Nate wakes again, the sun has risen a full width above the horizon, to an angle that glares blindingly off the sea and the pale beach sand.  
  
The fire has burnt out, probably hours ago, and even in the sun's full glare Nathan feels terribly cold.  
  
He's alone. Deadpool is nowhere to be found.


	2. Chapter 2

Prince Nathanial Christopher Charles Dayspring Askani'son Summers isn't usually in the habit of taking long walks on the beach. Or anywhere, as a general rule. When he's in the mood for quiet contemplation he does it inside, where there are fewer opportunities for obsessive royalists to leap out at him unexpectedly.

Then again, he's not usually in the habit of being rescued by enigmatic mermen who vanish before he can thank them properly either, so perhaps it's just that sort of week.

He wishes he knew what he was doing out here.

Alright, that's not true, what he really wishes is that he had a better explanation than the insane idea that his rescuer might just pop his head out of the waves and let Nathan wave him over for a chat if he makes himself visible enough. Anyone could have told him what a long shot this was in an ocean this size. Given that one of few things Nathan does know about Deadpool is his firm aversion to being seen at all, it would be a long shot even were the ocean the size of a millpond. All he can say in defence of the idea is that it's surely no more crazy than the idea of a merman saving a human's life in the first place, and he knows that happened, even if the rest of the court is convinced it was no more than a fever dream brought on by swallowing too much seawater.

Everyone knows that mermen are ugly, vicious creatures without an ounce of love for mankind to share between them; more naturally inclined to drag a hapless sailor down to his doom in a fit of cackling glee than carry him ashore. So either what everyone knows about mermen is wrong or Nathan has encountered the one exception, and it bothers him that he has no way of knowing which. It hadn't seemed polite to ask at the time, considering the effort it had taken just to get the admission that his mysterious rescuer was a merman in the first place. If Nathan had to guess he'd say Deadpool had seemed more than a little embarrassed to have been caught helping a human.

If that's true – if Deadpool had done something the rest of his race would disapprove of in order to help him – that only makes Nathan's debt to him all the greater. Unfortunately, staring out into the ocean fails to grant him any particular insight into how he's going to go about ever finding one merman in all the ocean again.

Nathan still has no idea what he thinks he's doing out here.

Sighing, he turns back towards home just in time to watch a large wave tumbling a naked man up the beach not twenty feet away. For a moment Nathan wonders whether the sea has delivered him his merman after all, but on a second look the man is plainly human. He's also plainly in serious need of some help.

Nathan doesn't stop to wonder what a naked man is doing out there, just tosses his coat onto the sand and charges into the surf. The next wave reaches the floundering man a moment before Nathan does and he goes under; Nathan pulls him up coughing and spluttering. He goes mostly limp as Nathan drags him up the beach and rolls him on to his side on the edge of the waveline. There the man proceeds to cough up another couple of mouthfuls of water and finally flop over onto his back, panting. Nathan lets him lie there for a while as he gets his breath back. The edge of a few waves wash up as far as his legs, slowly eroding sand out under him like an irritable landlord, but he's otherwise in no more danger from the sea up here.

After a minute he opens his eyes. Nathan leans over him, concerned.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Nathan has just time to register the man reaching for him before he becomes aware that he's being kissed enthusiastically on the lips by someone who tastes strongly of seawater.

Alright, thinks Nathan. Apparently this man is very grateful for his help. Or possibly foreign. One of those things.

The man stops kissing him again just as suddenly and stares off into the distance for a confusing moment, like he's just remembered something worrying or heard something Nathan hasn't. Automatically, Nathan turns to look in the same direction. There's nothing there. Odd.

When he looks back the man has shaken himself out of his daze and is gazing at Nathan as though he's just discovered religion. It makes Nathan faintly uncomfortable.

“It was nothing really,” he says, standing up. The man's gaze follows him. There's something tantalisingly familiar about him that Nathan can't quite place. At least he does seem to be alright, he supposes as he looks the man over, not to mention quite. Er. Quite.

It's at about this moment that the man seems to remember that he's still very naked and hurriedly covers himself up with both hands. He looks up at Nathan accusingly, then down at his hands again. It's far too late to hope he hadn't noticed Nathan looking.

“I didn't mean...” Nathan stammers.

The man looks back up and waggles his eyebrows at him.

Perhaps he's very foreign, thinks Nathan, feeling a little helpless.

“Look, I... you can borrow my coat,” he offers, and hurries off to retrieve it, grateful for the distraction.

It's too big on the man and he has to help him with the sleeves, but at least it's long enough to hang down to his thighs, which makes things much less awkward for both of them. Again, the man looks inordinately grateful; Nathan doesn't have the heart to tell him that he's very fond of that coat himself and is going to want it back.

“Now maybe you could tell me how you came to be out here,” he prompts.

The man's shoulders slump. He pats his throat significantly and Nathan is suddenly seeing his silence thus far in a new light.

“You can't speak?”

The man shakes his head, shoulders slumping even further.

“But you can understand me, can't you?”

The man nods vigorously. He can't be that foreign then, but something is still very much amiss here. “You're not from around here, are you?” Nathan hazards.

Another shake.

“I suppose it's not going to be much good me asking who you are and where you came from either then,” says Nathan, “Unless you could, er, mime it out, or something.”

The man considers, looks sharply at Nathan with an expression that suggests inspiration has struck, and then he charges back into the surf, wading out until the water is up to his knees. He points to himself, splashes around in exaggerated fashion for a bit, then points to himself again, willing Nathan to understand. Any fool could see he's trying to tell Nathan something important.

“You're.... called Wade?” Nathan guesses.

The man hits himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand and falls dramatically backwards into the water, probably ruining Nathan's coat in the process. Given the chance Nathan is sure he would have been a lot more embarrassed or insulted or something to that general effect by this reaction had he not been urgently occupied rushing into the waves to drag the man out again.

At least one thing about his origins is clear: wherever the man hails from must be dry as a bone, if he's lived to this age without getting enough experience with water to learn he can't breathe the stuff.

He lets Wade keep the coat – it's never going to be the same again anyway – and Wade lets Nathan keep calling him 'Wade', despite the name evidently not belonging to either of them. It's just going to have to do until they get a little better at this whole communication thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning on the WIP status here - this fic was first written and filed under 'things I will maybe continue someday' back in 2011. I'd still very much like to finish it, but I wouldn't want to get anyone's hopes up too high, especially over the short term. *cough*


	3. Chapter 0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 0, set some hours before the events of chapter 1, from the other side of the shoreline.

Hardly have the golden sparks of the last great chrysanthemum begun raining into the sea below when the band strikes up again amidst polite applause, leaving nary a break between one entertainment and the next. Cast no longer in the ever-shifting colours of the fireworks display, shadows slink cosily back in among the party guests enjoying the spectacle from the deck of the royal yacht. Even from halfway across the bay the cheery trill of pipes and violins can be picked out in bits and pieces when it carries on the wind, scattered in complement to the warm glow of lantern-light dancing over the crests of the waves. Perched on a sea-scoured rock that peaks above the tideline near the shore, someone gives a long, heartfelt sigh.

Presently, the wind picks up again, now carrying cheers from the revellers on the yacht as a new barrel of wine is breeched in aid of the celebration. By the old sea rock, there's a faint splashing sound, followed by a rhythmic series of taps as a sea otter begins hammering a clam shell against one of the craggier edges sticking up above the waves.

From the rock's other occupant comes another sigh, this one perhaps more pointed than the last.

The sea otter pauses in his quest for tasty mollusc flesh. "I'm sorry," he says, "Did you say something?

"Do you _mind_ , Weasel?" his friend complains. "I'm tryna get my romantic pining on over here, and you're _ruining_ the mood with all your clam-hammering! If you must make that noise, you could at least try to get some sort of funky Caribbean beat going, geez!"

"I'm not sure I have the rhythm for that," admits Weasel-the-sea-otter. His own sigh as he sets his clam down on the rock is only a little less heartfelt than his friend's, if diplomatically softer.

" _Humans_ ," croons the other, oblivious. "Aren't humans amazing? All that smooth, unblemished skin. All that delicate, flowing hair. All those goddamn _clothes_ they haveta go covering themselves in like the giant fucking teases that they are."

"I'll take your word for it," says Weasel. "I can't say I can really make that much out from here."

His friend grumbles faintly and passes over a telescope. A few moments pass in quiet contemplation as Weasel takes in the view.

"Most of them look rather, well, wrinkly to me," he offers eventually.

"Not _them_ , the cute one! Over on the right, leaning on the... whatdyacallit, the sticky-up bit around the edge of the boat."

"The boat-wall, perhaps?"

"Yeah, that's probably it. Have you ever lain eyes on such a spectacle of beauty? Such a vision sculpted in mortal flesh? Such a smoking hot piece of human ass?"

There is a short, significant pause. "Deadpool," says Weasel, "you do realise that's a _boy_ human, right?"

" _So_?" snaps Deadpool, defensive. "If you're gonna do this forbidden love thing, you gotta be prepared to go _hard_ or go _home_. Mooning over some pretty princess is for _sissies_."

Weasel seems to consider this as he passes back the telescope. "Well, inasmuch as I have any real opinion on humanoids, I don't see much to recommend him over that siren you were mooning over last year. Whatever happened to her, anyway?" Largely on automatic he finds himself picking up his clam again and giving it a bit of a hopeful gnaw. A mouthful of thick shell is his only reward.

"Not that it's any of your business or anything, but some relative left her a very nice bit of whirlpool-front property on a very scenic rocky shore somewhere in the Mediterranean. Last I heard she was hitching her clam on the next transatlantic current. And we're not talking about her. And it's _Siryn_ , with a y!"

"Ah." Too late, it dawns on Weasel that raising the subject may have been a mistake. His friend isn't known for taking his break-ups maturely.

"Grr. _Mermaids_. They really grease my gills." In Deadpool's hands, the telescope is roughly twisted until it must be well out of focus. "Always combing their stupid hair and wailing on about not having _feet_ , like that's gonna be the dealbreaker in an ocean full of sailors so horny they'd look twice at a dugong that shimmied its hips a little. All out there with their beautiful singing voices and their stupid clam-shell underwear, being all damp and sexy all the time. Mermaids got it _made_ , I tell you. Should try being one of us that _weren't_ lucky enough to get all their fishy bits artistically arranged at the bottom, see how that works out for them. Some of us have _real_ problems."

It occurs to Weasel that he probably ought to come up with something sympathetic to say at this point. Inspiration, however, has failed him; he suspects drawing comparisons between the ocean separating Deadpool from his absent Siryn and the thick layer of shell separating Weasel from his dinner may not go down well, nevermind that both seem roughly as insurmountable just at the moment.

" _Humans_ , now – humansare a _whole_ other kettle of amphibians," says Deadpool, before Weasel can embarrass himself. "All the looks of the fairer marine sex, and none of the squelchiness. I'm done mooning over mermaids, Weas. I've seen the light. I'm moving up in the world – moving on to fresh, _dry_ pastures. That's where the action is."

Weasel relaxes slightly. This is safer territory. "I don't know. I'm hardly one to tell you the sky isn't a pretty sight, but I can't say I see the appeal of spending one's life supporting one's entire body mass on a few stubby appendages. Doesn't seem natural."

"But that's only the beginning! The _wonders_ of the human world, the marvellous things they make! They've got this stuff up there, it's called _fire_..."

"Yes, I know. You've describe it to me before. In some detail," says Weasel, with the long-suffering resignation of one who's long since heard his fill on the alleged human monopoly on opposable digits and mammalian tool-usage.

"And _gunpowder_!" Deadpool shivers at the thought. "The things they can do with _gunpowder_."

"Yes, quite a lot of it was exploding over our heads just a minute ago. Very pretty."

"Then there's the _knives_. _Swords_. Oh, the wonders I have glimpsed – shiny, pointy sharp things in sizes big and small..."

"I don't know why you're playing coy. I know about your collection of slightly-used carving instruments that, quote, _fell off a boat_ , unquote." Come to think of it, though... Weasel gives his clam thoughtful look. Perhaps humans have invented something that could be used to lever the things open. They eat clams, don't they? He has a suspicion that _they_ don't spend all their time hammering on them with a rock.

"And the _food_!" The noise Deadpool makes here is almost obscene. "Spices and sweetbread and candy-sugar – oh, but, a man has not _lived_ until he was experienced the joy of fried chicken. And what's left of it all if it falls in the drink? A few damp lumps of black gunk, a new coating of rust, and a mouthful of _salt_." A moment of relative quiet passes as Deadpool adjusts his telescope back into focus. "I _mention_ this, Weas," he says, tone having acquired a pointed edge, "because I would hate for anyone to get any funny ideas that my affection for yonder eligible-young-beefcake is purely superficial. Now _there_ is a man who knows his way around a lump of gunpowder."

"Ahh," said Weasel. " _He's_ the one who shot down that seagull who tried to sell you an old tuning fork as some sort of hair accessory."

"Is it romantic of me to feel like there could be some connection between us? The heavy hand of fate, gently nudging us together, while the wind whispers _now kiss_..."

"He doesn't know you from seaweed," says Weasel, which is perhaps unkind, but also true. "At least Siryn knew your name."

"You don't _rush_ these things, okay? You gotta bide your time, wait for the right moment."

"I think 'stalking' is the word you're looking for."

" _Admiring from afar_. You tell me, Weas, why'd the maker give _me_ legs if he didn't intend me to scale a few walls and peep in through some windows in the dead of the night?"

"No comment," says Weasel, though hardly are the words out of his mouth when a new angle occurs to him. "Though if you do drop by... maybe you could see if you could get hold of some of that gunpowder stuff sometime?" If it can take down a seagull _and_ light up the night sky in technicolour, what could it do to a stubborn clamshell? Weasel isn't sure, but it seems safe to say they'll have more fun finding out than whichever unfortunate shellfish they sacrifice to the cause, and that's a victory in and of itself. Besides, what's the point of being a supernaturally articulate sea mammal if you don't use your brains for anything creative once in a while? "Aw, Weas," says Deadpool, voice thick with fondness. "I _knew_ there was a reason you were my best bud."

Weasel could probably count several reasons, most of whom have lately moved to the Mediterranean or otherwise wouldn't give Deadpool the time of day – it's not as though openly obsessing over humans is the way one makes friends in the ocean – but it doesn't seem so very important.

When the storm rolls in across the ocean they're busily sharing Weasel's clam, engaged in a heated discussion of the relative merits of mustard and oyster sauce. The fireworks being long since exhausted, it comes as a quite the surprise to all when the light show above starts up again, with a great flash and a bang as the lightning hits the mast. It's rather a shame, Weasel decides, given their earlier conversation, that Deadpool had his head underwater at the point where the fire finds a barrel of gunpowder on board – the explosion is quite spectacular, and he's sure his friend would've enjoyed the view, if only he hadn't rushed off in quite such a hurry.


End file.
